


Contact

by RuBecSo



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Dissociation, First Kiss, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Smoking, Trust Issues, post-emerald city
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 15:10:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21412210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuBecSo/pseuds/RuBecSo
Summary: 'Later, it would occur to Meyer that he must have been sitting up waiting for him.'---After the deal in Atlantic City goes wrong, Meyer finds himself on Charlie's doorstep. Most of the world is out of focus, but some things are suddenly clear.
Relationships: Meyer Lansky/Lucky Luciano
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36





	Contact

**Author's Note:**

> Because there's never enough post-Emerald City, Meyer and Charlie first kiss fics, right?
> 
> This is adapted from another roleplay thread by me and my friend pepsiwithlemon. I've edited it to maintain Meyer's POV throughout instead of shifting between them.

Meyer stared at his wristwatch for a while before it made sense to him. Eighteen minutes past midnight. He felt like it could have been anything between 8pm and 6am.

He looked back up at the door. He’d known he wouldn’t go home. He hadn't exactly decided it. It was more like he’d come to that understanding on the way back to New York, as if someone else had explained it to him. It made sense. He wasn’t expected back until tomorrow. Yetta would ask why. He wouldn’t be able to tell her. She’d worry. She didn’t deserve that. (If he’d died in that warehouse how long would it have taken her to find out?)

It made sense. He wouldn’t go home. So here he was, at eighteen minutes past midnight, finding out where his limbs had brought him instead. (Or whatever icy spirit had taken them over at some point between the bullet going through Lucien’s head and Matteo’s body hitting the floor.)

It was Charlie’s place. Of course it was. Where else would he have gone? 

He knocked once. The sound and sensation surprised him, like he’d been expecting his hand to pass straight through. He knocked again. Then again. And again. Soon it was just something his hand was doing; he didn’t remember why until Charlie opened the door.

“Meyer.” He didn’t sound surprised.

“Charlie.” 

There was a shrill whistle from inside. The kettle on the stove. Meyer’s shoulders rose a fraction of an inch, though his face was frozen, fixed in unnatural neutrality.

Charlie glanced over his shoulder, then held the door open. “Come on in. I was just making coffee.”

(Later, it would occur to Meyer that he must have been sitting up waiting for him.)

He stopped just inside, reached up on instinct to remove his cloth cap, and only then noticed it wasn’t there. Must have left it somewhere. The day flickered through his mind like a film reel being played impossibly fast, skipping back to when he last remembered having it. (In the distillery. With the D’Alessios and that giggling polack of theirs. Hat folded neatly in his hand. Smile on his face. _ ‘You’re under the wing of Arnold Rothstein now.’ _ He’d been so proud. That moment when his new partner’s back had been turned for just a fraction too long; had he seen it coming or did he just remember it that way?)

“Close the door, will ya?” Charlie called. His voice had an edge of anxiety beneath the humour. “You want all of Manhattan to come waltzing in?”

He’d moved across the room and fixed them both coffee. That was useful. It gave Meyer an idea of how long he’d been stood there. He looked back at the open door, then over at Charlie (but not quite _ at _ him). He must have seen something in his face, or something that was missing, because he quickly spoke again:

“Forget it.” He crossed the room, a cup in each hand. “You sit.”

His voice, too, was useful. The sound was something Meyer could hold onto, orientate himself around, though the words took some time to reassemble in his head. 

Charlie held out a cup. “Careful. It’s hot.” 

The smell of coffee reached Meyer’s nostrils. The room came into focus. His eyes caught Charlies’ for just a second, almost by accident.

“Thank you.” 

He walked over to the nearest armchair (his steps were like his knocks, disjointed and disconnected) and sat down. He took a sip of coffee and, finding it was indeed quite hot, he set it down on the side table. His hand slipped automatically into his jacket pocket and pulled out an empty pack of smokes. He looked at the crumpled packet; a stitch of confusion appeared between his brows. Had he smoked them all on the journey back? He didn’t remember doing that. Though now he thought about it, that would explain why his throat felt like it had been scoured with a wire brush.

Charlie’s hand entered his field of vision, holding out an already-lit cigarette. He hadn’t asked for one (had he?), but he wasn’t going to say no. He reached for it. He felt clumsy. His hand bumped into Charlie’s. Like with the door, there was a moment of surprise at the solidity. He gripped reflexively, like an infant; for a moment all the tension in his body flooded into his hand. His fingers dug into Charlie’s knuckles.

Then he blinked, colour rising in his cheeks as he remembered to be embarrassed. He relinquished his hold, taking the cigarette with it. He took a small puff of smoke, holding it in his mouth instead of taking it all the way in. His stomach was churning, but it was good to have something to do with his hands.

“You’re staying here tonight.” said Charlie. It wasn’t up for debate. “It’s late.” He paused. “And you’re back early.”

It wasn’t a question, but it was an invitation. Meyer closed his eyes, hand covering his mouth, and sighed smoke through his nose.

“It was a set up.” His eyes stayed closed as he gathered his thoughts. “White and Doyle. With Thompson.” His free hand gripped the armrest. “Lucien and Matteo are dead.”

Charlie paced around him in a tight circle, lighting a cigarette for himself. Meyer tracked him for as far as his eyes would go. He knew his friend needed this, as much as he needed stillness. 

“What kinda set up?”

Meyer searched for the shortest explanation, like he was sending a telegram and every word cost extra. He wanted to tell Charlie exactly what he needed to know and nothing more. (He didn't. He wanted to tell him everything. He wanted to broadcast his every thought directly into his head like Benny joked he could, even though the idea of anyone else having that kind of knowledge would have made Meyer want to throw up_ . _)

“Doyle tipped off Thompson. Probably with him from the start.” He closed his eyes again, rested his head against the backrest of the chair and sighed. The tension never left his neck and shoulders. “White set up the meeting and brought us to him.”

He could hear Charlie’s footsteps as he paced, like a coil winding around itself until it was ready to spring. It was an effort not to get lost in the rhythm and lose focus on his friend’s words. 

“Fuckin’ polack,” Charlie snarled. “The D’Alessios do somethin’ stupid then?”

The corner of Meyer’s mouth twitched; it could have been a smile or a grimace but didn’t quite make it to either.

“You could say that,” he muttered. 

“Does AR know?”

Meyer opened his eyes, but his gaze remained distant.

“No, not yet.” He took a careful sip of coffee; it had cooled down a little. “I have to tell him what happened.” With a conscious effort, his eyes refocused and shifted to Charlie’s face. “I promised Mr Thompson I would.”

He watched as his unspoken answer to an unspoken question (_‘Yes, that’s why I’m still alive’ _) sank in. Charlie nearly chewed on the end of the cigarette, clenched in his scowl.

“Did they hurt you?” The question poured out of him.

Meyer shook his head rapidly. 

“No, I’m…” his lips started to form around the word ‘fine’, but they both knew that wasn’t true, “...no. They didn’t.”

Granted, they hadn’t exactly been gentle, but it could have been far worse. They both knew that from experience. (The fact that he was mostly unharmed and still definitely not ‘fine’ was not something he wanted to give any more thought than was necessary.)

Charlie snuffed out his cigarette and pulled up a rickety wicker chair next to him. He sat down and reached for his cup of coffee.

“What d’you wanna tell AR?” He took a sip. “You wanna tell him the deal in Atlantic City’s gone belly up, but he’s still a million clams richer? So long as those bust-out bastards knew how to spell their own names?”

Meyer waved his hand, scattering ash. “Signature’s a signature, it’s all legally binding. I read in…”

He cut himself off; he was getting sidetracked. He leaned forward to stub out his smoke, then rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands as if praying.

“Might put him in a good mood at least,” he muttered, forehead propped up on his knuckles, “Although…” he paused, thinking it over before continuing. “...if we could convince him the D’Alessios aren’t worth the trouble…?”

The implied question mark at the end of the sentence was pulling a triple duty:

_ ‘Do you get what I’m saying?’ _ (They could cut their losses if they cut the D’Alessios loose now.)

_ ‘Are you alright with this?’ _(They were Charlie’s friends before, after all.)

_ ‘Do you reckon he’d go for it?’ _(Meyer might have been the ideas man, but it was Charlie who knew how to sell them.)

He looked over at Charlie as the unspoken questions percolated through the silence.

“Don’t think that’d take much convincing,” he replied after a while, “They already got two strikes against ‘em, and AR don’t bet on a game he ain’t sure he’s gonna win.”

Meyer was already jumping ahead in his mind, ready to poke holes in his own idea until all the potential pitfalls were accounted for. He opened his mouth to reply (_ ‘Sure, but where does that leave us?’ _), but Charlie continued:

“Besides, it ain’t them I’m worried about.” He was quiet for a moment. “Say we cut our losses with the D’Alessios. What about you? Thompson don’t strike me as the type to forgive and forget so easily.”

Meyer almost laughed. Maybe Charlie really could see into his head.

“Not me. _ Us. _ ” The intensity of his own voice surprised him. He looked away, staring into his cup of coffee. “I heard Thompson say something about how they still had to get to the other D’Alessios,” his gaze flickered up to Charlie’s for a second, “ _ and _you. That was when I…” 

He stopped, biting down on the words that were threatening to clamber up his throat and escape:

_ ‘...when I spoke up, called Thompson’s attention to me before I even knew what I was going to say, because I knew I had to try something, had to stay alive long enough to get back to you.’ _

His mouth opened and closed wordlessly. His eyes squeezed shut. He felt like he was looking down from a great height. (Don’t give yourself away. You can’t take back the pieces of yourself once they’re gone.)

“...when I…” He searched desperately for some way to finish that sentence. “…when I figured White had acted before he was meant to. I think Thompson wanted to get all of us, in one place.” He knew he’d strayed from the topic at hand, but he was pulled along by his own inertia. “If Chalky hadn’t jumped the gun… Thompson wouldn’t have needed me to send a message...”

_ ‘... and I’d be dead.’ _

He didn’t have to finish that sentence, because at that moment Charlie reached out and gently squeezed the back of his neck, like a mother cat scooping up her kitten. Meyer exhaled sharply as the sensation brought the room back into focus again. Nine times out of ten if someone touched him unexpectedly he’d tense up, shrug them off, or wriggle free. But this time, his hand came up reflexively and grabbed ahold of Charlie’s wrist to make sure he didn’t move away. 

He needed this. He’d needed it and didn’t even know it. (Had Charlie? Or had he just gotten lucky?)

“Gonna give yourself a headache tryin’ to think about what all coulda happened.” Charlie’s head bobbed in the corner of Meyer’s vision, trying to catch his eye. He let it be caught. “We’ll talk to AR. He already don’t like Nucky, and it’s his man causin’ problems. We’ll sort it out. Together.”

A shiver ran down his spine, like a spark of electricity starting from the hand on his neck. His grip on Charlie’s wrist tightened. (What was this?)

He nodded, not breaking eye contact. 

“Together,” he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper. “AR needs to know we’re both on his side.”

Charlie’s fingers slid up the base of his neck, brushing against the bit of fuzz where the shaved edges met cropped hair. Part of Meyer wanted to break away, not because it felt wrong but because it felt fragile. It would shatter soon; wouldn’t it be better if it were on his terms? But he couldn’t do it, because Charlie was real and as long as they maintained contact so was he.

“Y’know,” said Charlie, “no matter how it shakes out with Rothstein, only side I’m on is yours and mine.”

Again, he knew what Meyer needed before he did. Just as the world outside this little space was uncertain, so too was everyone in it. Meyer knew this feeling, knew he would snap back eventually and remember the difference between friend and foe, but for now no one was to be relied upon. No one but himself and Charlie. (And what besides friend or foe did that make him?)

“I know.” His grip slackened a little and he felt his way up Charlie’s arm until he reached his shoulder. “Me too.”

Charlie fingers were still tangled in his hair. Meyer couldn’t tell if he was leaning into his touch or if he was imagining it.

“You want more coffee?” 

He shook his head, fingers digging reflexively into Charlie’s shoulder.

“No, I…” 

He trailed off, looking down at the cup in his hand with a last few dregs of coffee still in it. He wedged it between his leg and the chair cushion, shifted round in his seat so he was sitting face on with Charlie.

“I want…”

(Say something. To sleep, to smoke, to eat. Find a way out of this. It will hurt less that way.)

His breath caught in his smoke-rasped throat.

“I don’t know what I want.”

And as soon as he said it, he did. He leaned over, pulled Charlie towards him, and kissed him.


End file.
